by James Hunter
Unfortunately, I’d left things with her on a bit of a sour note … the last time we’d been together, she’d invited me back to her place for the night, which had been great. Hell, better than great. Awesome.
But I hadn’t wanted to stick around, so I’d left her a note on the nightstand and slipped out in the early morning before I had to do the awkward goodbye dance. I’ve never been one for longs goodbyes, anyway. Easier that way. Since then, I’d left her a couple of messages on her home phone—she was always at work, so I knew it was a safe bet that I’d miss her—just checking in, letting her know how the search for the shot-caller in the Guild was going.
“She’ll help us even if she’s pissed,” Cassius said, once more picking up on my unease. “She’s not nearly as petty as we are.”
Good point. So it would be a little awkward. Whatever. Not like that was a first for me. I could live with awkward. I’d just have to cross that burned-down-husk of a bridge when I came to it. Right now I couldn’t call her anyway, not until I got back to civilization.
Pushing aside my complicated thoughts about Ferraro, I turned my mind to the file folder from the motorhome, the one I’d already looked through a half-dozen times. It immediately popped up on the screen, the pages laid out in three rows of three pages each. The document was some kind of shipping manifesto. In the far left hand column was a list of dates, spanning back a solid couple of months—two, often three, shipments per week.
There was also a column detailing the number of “test subjects” being transported. Three each go, with additional info listed about each subject. Where they’d been picked up—mostly from a city called Missoula, a short drive north from Lolo—general physical condition, gender, age, and another designation that didn’t make sense to me: H or NH. The majority of the subjects fell into the H category, but there were a handful of NHs as well.
I wasn’t sure what it all meant, but one fact was as glaringly obvious as the sun at high noon—these assholes had kidnapped a shit-ton of people. Nine a week for two months put the total at seventy-two “subjects.” Seventy-two people captured, held against their will, traded like property, and experimented on.
My blood boiled just thinking about it. I saw those three prisoners from the trailer, chained up and herded like fat moo-cows bound for the slaughterhouse. The longer I sat here doing nothing but pissing my time away, the less likely those three would make it out alive.
“Okay, so you know what to do?” Cassius finally asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“Yeah, yeah. I got it.”
“Be safe out there,” he said. “Remember your ass isn’t the only one on the line.”
My mind skipped from the prisoners to the nightmare version of Seattle, where mankind had officially been put on the endangered species list. I set my glass down on the table and stood up, fading down and out toward my body.
“I was talking about me,” I heard faintly. “It’s my ass on the line too, so don’t muck this up.”
I opened my eyes. The cave was unchanged, and Winona still sat unmoving on the bear pelt across the cave. I pulled my feet from the water, wove a small flow of air and heat to wick the moisture away, shimmied my socks and boots back in place, then headed over to the meditating Bigfoot. I poked her in the shoulder, just to make sure she wasn’t dead or comatose. She didn’t budge. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but her eyes didn’t flicker open, nor did she acknowledge me in the least.
I poked her a bit more forcefully—a hard jab to the meat of her shoulder. Several times. After three or four “pokes,” she finally shook her head back and forth as if she were coming out of a long sleep, then blinked her eyes open. “Why are you disturbing me?” she said, her voice groggy.
Hell, maybe she had been asleep. Did the Bigfeet sleep sitting up? I sure as shit didn’t know.
“There is no sign of my father. I must resume my search—”
“I don’t care,” I said, cutting her off. “You recruited me to help, and I’m not doing anyone a damn lick of good sitting around here on my ass, spinning my wheels. I gotta get moving.”
She was quiet, the silence stretching itself into something uncomfortable and claustrophobic. “Very well,” she said eventually, clearly far from thrilled at the prospect of me leaving. “I will take you to your car.” She paused for another beat, scrutinizing me, her distrust evident. “What is it you intend to do?”
“I intend to get shit done,” I said without hesitation. “Don’t worry about the how. I’ve got a few leads to run down. I’ll contact some people, see if we can’t get to the bottom of this sheisty business.”
She nodded, though her mind was plainly elsewhere—she was worried about Kong.
I wasn’t. No one was gonna be laying the hurtin’ on Super Kong anytime soon.
She stood gracefully, moved over to the far wall, and waved one hairy mitt across a blank, smooth section of rock. The stone glittered and wavered, melting away to reveal a carved nook recessed into the wall. There were a couple of books stowed away, a few ancient-looking vellum scrolls, and an odd assortment of antique trinkets. She rummaged for a moment, carefully moving items aside, before finally pulling out a clear quartz gem, about the size of a small cell phone, with veins of pink marbled throughout.
She brought the stone over and hesitantly presented it to me. “An attunement stone,” she said by way of explanation. “It is bound to me. When you need to speak with me, hold it to your head.” She placed it against her ear, the way someone might hold an actual cell phone—though it looked like a kiddy toy in her oversized paws. “Project your thoughts through the quartz. The stone will amplify them. It will allow me to hear you, so long as you stay within a hundred miles. You understand this?”
I’d never used an attunement stone before, but it sounded similar to my scrying stone. “Yeah, I got it, sister. Now listen up. I know you’re not in any kinda state to answer questions, but we need to have a serious sit down, y’dig? You and your pops haven’t been honest with me, and if you expect me to wade through this crapalanche and find us a way out, I need some friggin’ honesty. And if you and your old man can’t trust me with the truth, then you can find someone else to play your errand boy.”
Her jaw clenched and she folded her arms as she kicked my ultimatum around in that colossal head of hers. “It is understood,” she replied. “The matter is … it is the secret business of the People, and I can’t speak of it. But once I recover my father, I will convince him of the need. He … He will tell you. I swear it true.”
I nodded. “Good enough for me. Now get me outta here, huh?”
The trip back to the Camino took twenty minutes or so, all of which passed by in a haze of dark trees and slapping wind as I rode in Winona’s arms.
My car wasn’t far from where I’d originally been flagged down, tucked away amongst a sparse thicket of trees. I didn’t see my baby until we were right up on the thing. It’d been veiled by either Winona or Kong—I could feel the ward both concealing the car and urging on any passersbys: Keep on trucking, nothing to see here. Winona dispelled the veil with a faint effort of will, then set me down.
“You will contact me when you know more?” she asked. The way she said it made me think it was more of a demand than a question.
“Don’t sweat it, Furry-pants, I’ll be in touch.”
She merely gave me a little smile, then turned and disappeared into the woods as quietly, quickly, and smoothly as a shadow blending into the night.
I pulled the keys from my pocket and made my way around to the driver-side door. The door was gone—a quick glance through the camper shell window revealed that Kong had shoved it rather roughly into the camper. Inconsiderate jerk. I sighed, climbed into the driver’s seat, buckled on my seat belt—I was driving without a friggin’ door, after all—and got the engine going. At least that was still working like a champ.
I checked for oncoming traffic and pulled out onto the black top, putting the pedal d
own hard to get up to speed, and the night wind rushed into the cabin like a hurricane. I sighed again. Just my luck. I couldn’t do anything with the driver’s ID, the license plate, or the cell phones until I got ahold of Ferraro, but I still had one option to explore.
I thought back to the room key I’d lifted off the driver’s corpse. He’d been staying in room nineteen at some place called the Motor Carriage Motel, in Lolo. I could use a shower and a bit of shut-eye, and the Motor Carriage Motel sounded like an excellent place to kick back.
EIGHT:
Leads
Lolo was a nice enough town, though not the type of place I’d necessarily pick by choice. It was identical to nearly every other small town across the sprawling sweep of America. An idyllic place housing a couple thousand residents. A place where everyone knew everyone else. Where buildings were old, but well made. Where there was still a local butcher and maybe only a single Walmart. It was the kinda place where being local meant having a family history that went back multiple generations. A good place for passing through, sure, but not for cooling your heels. Far harder to blend into a town like this, where strangers were rare and noted.
Not to mention, finding a good bar that didn’t cater to locals only was damn near impossible, and trying to find a piece of action—a high stakes card game, say—was a long shot, even with my kind of luck.
The Motor Carriage Motel wasn’t listed on Google, which ought to tell you something, but a quick stop off at a gas station yielded an address close by. Trying to explain away the missing driver-side door to the attendant wasn’t so easy. Despite the Camino’s eccentric appearance, it usually flies under the radar thanks to a pair of glamour wards built into both door panels. Since Kong had oh-so-kindly torn one of the panels off, however, the glamour was working half-strength at best, which meant I attracted a lot of quizzical looks as I puttered through town. That asshole, Kong.
I pulled out my cell as I drove, brought up my contact list, and scrolled until Ferraro’s number rolled onto the screen. I thumbed the green “send” button and waited. The phone rang once, twice, three times, then clicked to life, someone rustling around on the other end.
“This is Ferraro.” She sounded groggy and dazed, like maybe I’d woken her up. “Hello, this is Ferraro,” she said again, sharply.
“Yeah … Hey, it’s Yancy. Yancy Lazarus,” I said after a second, wiggling uncomfortably in my seat.
A tense quiet followed, a pause long enough to make me think she’d hung up.
“I was wondering when you’d get around to calling,” she finally said, sounding more awake and alert already. “I take it this means you’ve got a solid lead on the Shelton case?”
Now it was my turn to fall silent, my quick wit bailing on me now that I really needed it. “Wait … so you’re not pissed that I haven’t been in touch before now?” I asked, both incredulous and slightly offended. I mean, sure, I was glad she wasn’t mad, but I’d kinda hoped she would miss me a little.
“I’m getting some feedback on my end,” she said. “It’s difficult to hear you, sounds like you’re in a hurricane. Do you have a window open or something?”
I glanced at the gaping hole next to me, which let a constant blast of wind into the cab’s interior. “Yeah, something like that,” I said.
“Well, can you roll it up?”
“Sorry,” I replied, “no can do. It’s complicated.”
“Figurati,” she grumbled. “Fine. Hold on a second, I have the feeling I should just put some coffee on now.” I heard her shuffling around, followed by the splash of a running tap. “Okay,” she said eventually. “Now, to answer your question, no, I’m not pissed at you. I knew what kind of man you were before I got involved. I’ve been tracking you for years, Yancy—I know you’re not the type of person who hangs around, who puts down roots.”
She hesitated again, the silence telling a different story entirely. “I’ll admit there was a part of me that hoped things could be different, but that was on me, not you. Fire burns, that’s its nature. You can’t change it, and to expect otherwise is a good way to get hurt. Men are the same. Now, what’ve you got?”
I cleared my throat. Boy, was that a relief. Oddly, though, her acceptance also made me feel unclean. Guilty. But I brushed it off. After all, she was right. I liked Ferraro a lot, but I wasn’t gonna do the suburbia, white-picket-fence thing, not even for a gal like her—that wasn’t my life, not anymore. Shit, I wasn’t sure that’d ever been my life.
“I need your help,” I said. “I’ve got a bunch of missing people, at least one corpse, and a small army of flesh-eating Bigfeet. I’ve also got a solid hunch that it might be tied to Randy and the Guild.”
“I’m sorry—I’m just waking up. Did you say Bigfeet? As in the plural form of Bigfoot?”
“Yeah, Bigfeet … well, the technical term is Chiye-tanka—I think it’s Native American or something—but yeah, Bigfeet. Giant ape-men and ape-women who live in the forest. They also have some pretty large feet, so there you go.”
The Motor Carriage Motel loomed into view, its neon sign a torch in the dark. “Listen, this whole shit-storm is one giant complication, I’ll fill you in when you get here. I’m in Lolo, Montana. Little dirt speck of a place, but it seems alright.”
“Hold on,” she said. There were a few audible clicks of a computer mouse, followed by the chatter of some rapid-fire typing. “Lolo, Montana, is in the Bitterroot Valley,” she said, as though reading off a fact sheet from some database. “I’m in Seattle, just got done working a case.” Another round of keyboard clacking. “Okay. I can be there in eight hours if I leave now.”
“That’s a helluva long haul,” I said. “You sure you can make it?”
She snorted. “Back in Iraq, I used to pull convoys that would last forty-eight hours straight. We’d get by on a few hours of sleep and make up for the rest with coffee and caffeine pills. If I could do that, I can certainly do this.”
“Alright, I’ll be at the Motor Carriage Motel, but give me a ring when you get into town, and we’ll figure out a place to meet up.”
“Sounds good, I’ll see you then. And Yancy, stay alive until I get there, okay?”
“Can do, ma’am.” I smiled despite myself and hung up on the call as I pulled into the motel parking lot. Had to admit, I was looking forward to seeing her again. It’d been a tough couple of months working this case all by my lonesome. It’d be good to have some company for a change, a partner watching my back again.
The Motor Carriage Motel was an older place, just shy of being run-down, laid out in a “U” shape. There was an empty outdoor pool and a big sign advertising vacancies. The parking lot, situated right smack dab in the middle of the U, was far from empty, but the one car I wanted to see—the panel van—wasn’t present.
Well, that’d been wishful thinking anyway.
I scanned the motel, searching for room nineteen, which ended up being a bottom, corner unit on the end of the U opposite the rental office. The parking space out front was empty, the curtains, drawn, and the lights, out. Looked empty, but it was also late, just past ten. So if someone was staying there—like maybe the other rent-a-thug from the motorhome—he could be catching a long blink. Seemed unlikely considering the events which had transpired this evening, but a guy can always dream, right?
I pulled the Camino into an empty space near the office—a single story, tan-brick building attached to the right hand side of the motel proper. Unlike room nineteen, the office shed warm, amber light onto the black asphalt, and I could hear the muted chatter of a television. I parked and killed the engine.
Now that I had phone service again, it was worth taking a look at the two disposable cells I’d lifted from the clearing. I fished one out of my pocket and pulled up the call log—there was only a single number listed. I highlighted the lonely number and pressed the call button, holding the phone to my ear as I waited. Something vibrated in my coat, buzzing against my side. I fumbled aroun
d for a moment and pulled out the second burner phone. I ended the call and watched the second phone cease its merry dance. The second cell only had one number listed there, too. Figures, one lead already shot. I tossed both phones into my glove box.
Hopefully the motel would turn up something more fruitful. I slid out of the car, moseyed over to the office entrance, and yanked the door open. An overhead bell let out a jingle, almost inaudible with the din from the TV—Jimmy Fallon, doing his Late Night hashtag shtick.
“Be right there,” someone called from the back.
I glanced around as I waited. The interior was nicer than I would’ve bet on from outside. The floors were clean, and there was a loveseat, a coffee table, and a pair of armchairs, all well maintained and neat. There was the customary counter, of course, and the flyer rack featuring local attractions—no motel could be without one of those—but the computer on the check-in desk was new. The sharp scent of red curry lingered in the air, which left my mouth watering and me thinking about how long it’d been since I’d last eaten. Ten or twelve hours ago, at least.
I pushed my greedy hunger out of mind as a door behind the counter swung out and a plump Indian man with burnt copper skin, sparse black hair, and wire-rimmed glasses scooted into the room. He wore dark slacks and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a giant, earnest smile split his smooth face.
“Hello,” he said in slightly accented English. “How can I help you tonight, sir?” His friendly grin widened—positively infectious, that smile. My gut instinct said subtle was the ticket: rent out a room for the night, wait around to see, and break into room nineteen. Simple and straightforward. But as I stared at the beaming motel clerk, I decided to go with a more direct approach. After all, if that didn’t pan out I could always fall back on the illegal, break-in-and-steal-shit option.